


Maybe Not at All

by griffxnblake



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angst, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Undertones, Exes, Exes with Benefits, F/M, Fingering, Light Choking, Optimistic Ending, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Possessive Sex, Rough Sex, Smut, it really is just smut, porn with some feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 15:02:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29437968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/griffxnblake/pseuds/griffxnblake
Summary: When Clarke finds it impossible to let herself hook up with someone else, she seeks out her ex of over a year, Bellamy. And this isn't the first time, nor is it the last. And she hates that.
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Comments: 10
Kudos: 124





	Maybe Not at All

**Author's Note:**

> Hi friends! Happy Valentine's Day if you're into it! So in an unexpected turn of events, I started writing this last night and actually finished it. I figured we could all do with some smut on this day. 
> 
> Thank you again to my lovely friend Sara (softblakegriffin) for beta-ing this on a rush and encouraging me to finish this. <33
> 
> Enjoy, you horndogs!

Anyone would call it a sickness, at this point. They went through the same old toxic cycle over and over and even when they always say it’s the last time, it just continues without an end in sight.

It hadn’t always been like this, but time and stress and life had a way of wearing down on people, and they were no exception.

It didn’t matter that they worked together - still do - or that they used to be stupidly in love with each other. At the end of the day, the tensions and frustrations and arguing would always win out and love just wasn’t enough for Bellamy Blake and Clarke Griffin. 

And now it’s all they can do to not hiss and spit at each other at work like they’d love nothing more than to wring each other's necks. 

And while that was becoming a problem, considering they’re both putting as much time and energy as they can into besting each other in pursuit of the same promotion, they had an even bigger problem that was slowly tearing them apart and burning each other up from the inside.

It always started in a similar way: one of them would usually go out for a drink after work to take the edge off, try to take someone else home, lose interest halfway through, and end up calling the other just to end up writhing in the other’s bed and moaning their name.

But it was nothing. It meant nothing. It was just a way to scratch an itch. They both knew that, and afterward the other would gather their clothes and they’d never discuss it again. 

Until it happened again.

The guy Clarke had managed to chat up this time was different than her usual type. He wasn’t as tall as the others, but everything about him was broad and solid and he had that cocky attitude that made her think he’d be a decent fuck. Maybe this was the one that would break the spell.

He practically already had a hand in her pants and the other on her tits in the back hallway of the bar when she suddenly felt wrong and needed to get away. It felt as though she couldn’t breathe, like something had clawed its way around her throat and she was seconds away from becoming someone’s prey and she needed  _ out. _

“I-I’m sorry, I can’t do this,” she splutters out as she tries to move away from him, and he pulls his head back to see if she’s being serious. 

“What’s the matter, sweetheart? Don’t be nervous, I got you,” he tells her before leaning back in at an attempt of a kiss. She turns away and shakes her head.

“No, really. I’m sorry, but I just can’t,” she repeats, suddenly feeling sick to her stomach as the man finally steps back and takes his hands off of her, his eyes narrowed. 

She can tell he’s obviously annoyed but it’s the last thing on her mind before she’s scooting away from him and back out into the dining area of the bar, ignoring his calls asking for her number at least.

She can’t get outside soon enough, but when she finally does the first thing she does is take a huge breath of chilly November air and leans against the brick wall of the building.

She hates this. It happens  _ every single time. _

The only thing she can think about is how it ultimately feels so wrong to have someone else’s hands on her body, someone else’s mouth on her skin. It’s a curse, a damn sickness, and she doesn’t know how to fight it.

Once her erratically beating heart starts to settle, she pulls her cellphone out of her back pocket, pressing the home button and lighting up the screen.  _ 10:17.  _

She doesn’t feel like calling him this time, not really in the mood to talk. She knows he’s home, anyway. He always is.

The Uber doesn’t take long to arrive, and takes just as long to get to his building. She shoots him a quick text to let her in, and in a matter of two minutes he’s buzzing her in and she’s getting in the elevator on the way to his floor.

She hates him, and she hates herself for running back like this. Truly, a sickness. And there’s no cure.

He opens the door to his apartment with no fanfare, merely moving aside to let her in. She notes that he’s already in his sweats and a tank top, his curls damp as if he just recently got out of the shower. When she passes him she can smell the scent of his shampoo and the familiarity comforts her.

“You alright?”

She nods, wondering just how shaken or on edge she must look for him to ask. They don’t usually talk. Not outside the bedroom, anyway. It’s just part of their routine.

She shrugs her coat off, hangs it on the hook beside the front door and she glances around the living room, checking to see if she’s perhaps interrupted something.

“Busy tonight?” she asks.

He shakes his head and runs his fingers through his hair in that way that drives her insane.

“No.”

That drives her insane, too. The short answers. It always has.

But whatever, she’s not here to think about the past. Or to think at all, if she’s being honest.

He turns toward the kitchen, pausing to open the fridge and take out a bottle of water. “Want anything?” he asks as he takes a long drink and puts the bottle back in the fridge. 

“No, thanks. I already had a drink.”

He closes the fridge door, turning his head and eyeing her curiously, his jaw working. She knows that look, and she can already feel the goosebumps forming on her skin and rush of heat heading between her legs.

He smirks then, making his way toward her. “Yeah? What was his name this time?”

She crosses her arms across her chest, throwing him a glare. “Fuck you, Bellamy.”

“That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? Because you couldn’t fuck him.”

“Since when are you this fucking chatty?” she spits back, just as he approaches her and raises his brow. 

“So you didn’t even get his name before coming here,” he teases, his voice low and he brings a hand up and brushes along her neck where the guy at the bar had been kissing her. 

Her eyes widen, wondering if she’s already sporting a bruise. She gets her answer when she sees something shift in Bellamy’s gaze, turning from light and teasing to something darker.

“You know why you’re here, Princess.”

It comes out as a statement more than a question. They both know. Of course they do.

He leans in then, his nose brushing along the shell of her ear, making her skin feel as though it’s been lit aflame that she lets out a slight whimper.

“Because you’re still  _ mine _ .”

She doesn’t get a chance to tell him he’s wrong before his lips crash against hers, devouring her as if it’s the last chance he’s ever going to get. The kiss is strong and deliberate, as if he’s trying to consume her completely and she hates how her body instantly reacts, pressing herself against him while his hands tangle in her hair.

When he finally relents and allows her to catch her breath, Clarke fists her hands in his shirt, her nails digging into the fabric. 

“Who said I’m yours?” she’s panting slightly, feeling the way he’s still gently pulling at her hair. 

“You know you are,” he growls, crowding her back against the door and she lets out a soft groan when her back hits the wooden surface. “Just look at how you react to me, even now.”

She gasps when he reaches down and quickly undoes the button on her jeans, pushing his hand into her underwear and over her slick mound. “See? You’re fucking dripping and you just got here.”

He runs his fingers over her slit, collecting the moisture there and Clarke curses to herself that her body has betrayed her again. She involuntarily grinds against his hand and Bellamy smirks when he takes in her look of concentration. 

“You’re just taking credit for someone else’s work,” she mutters angrily.

He laughs then, but his gaze darkens, it’s more primal now. “If that were true you wouldn’t be here, Princess.”

She hates that he’s right, but she’s not about to actually say it out loud. She hates that he’s right, that when the guy at the bar was groping her and kissing her neck, she tried to imagine it was Bellamy instead, thinking that maybe it would make it easier somehow. Clearly, she was wrong. 

He presses on her clit, making her buck her hips into his hand, trying to get more pressure, more friction, but he chooses instead to enter her with two fingers. He groans and kisses along her jaw, occasionally nipping her skin. 

“Always so wet for me,” he murmurs. “Just admit it.”

She doesn’t want to, yet her body is practically screaming with how right he is. So she does the next best thing she can think of and surges forward to connect her lips with his and shut him up. She gives as good as she gets, kisses him with the same urgency he does, running her tongue along his bottom lip. 

“Just shut up,” she retorts, grabbing the hem of his shirt and lifting it up to get it off of him. 

He chuckles against her lips, obliging her and pulling away momentarily to take off the offending garment and fling it onto the floor somewhere. Clarke runs her hands over the newly exposed skin, lightly scratching over his chest before resting them on his shoulders. He growls against her when her nails dig into his skin, and she hopes the scratches remind him tomorrow of how she made him feel tonight. 

When he takes his hand from between her legs and starts working on getting her sweater off, she whimpers at the loss. Bellamy kisses her neck as if to placate her, biting down hard on the spot where the guy from the bar kissed her and soothes it with his tongue when she gasps. 

She shivers when he finally pulls her sweater over her head and it joins his shirt on the floor. His mouth then immediately moves down to her chest, kissing the valley between her breasts and up along her collarbone, and it pulls a soft moan from Clarke’s lips. 

“Gorgeous,” he tells her, taking her wrists in his hands and pinning them to either side of her head on the door behind her. “Still the best tits I’ve ever seen,” he adds when he moves his mouth downward again, mouthing at the tops of her breasts and over the lacy fabric of her bra. 

He takes a covered, erect nipple between his lips and sucks hard, then softly soothes it, making Clarke cry out and arch her body towards him. A surge of jealousy shoots through her at the thought that he’s seen other women’s breasts, fucked other women, talked to other women like this, and she wriggles against his grip until he releases her. 

“Just get on with it,” she bites out angrily, gripping his biceps to the point her nails digging into his skin must hurt him. 

He doesn’t seem to care though. He gives her chest another slow kiss before looking up at her from under his curls. “What was that?”

“I said get on with it and fuck me already,” she groans.

“Someone’s bitchy tonight,” he mumbles with a smirk. 

He presses his lips to hers before she can snap out a response, and Clarke decides to just push any thoughts of jealousy away. She can’t think like that anyway. He’s not hers, and like she already told him, she’s not his. Not anymore. Not for over a year now.

They stumble their way into his bedroom somehow without tripping over anything, and she stops when she feels the back of her legs hit the mattress. They keep kissing, Bellamy’s lips rough and hungry against hers, like he can never get enough; and if there’s one thing she can appreciate about the man in front of her is that he’s always made her feel like the most desirable woman in the world. He drinks her in as if he’ll never get enough, and that thought alone makes her rub her thighs together in anticipation. 

He eases her down so she’s leaning back on the bed, her legs still hanging over the edge as he begins to pull her jeans down. She helps kick them off, her anticipation and excitement rising when his large hand reaches for her panties. She throws her head back and whines as he takes his time sliding them down her legs, and she can hear him grunt as he shucks his sweatpants off. 

“Got something to say?” he growls as he stands there at the end of the bed, raising a brow and his cock half hard. 

She bites her lip and shakes her head. She knows now isn’t the time to argue or question him. She knows how he can be, how he can decide to make her wait it out and suffer. She just needs his hands or his mouth on her right now.

“Good girl.”

He crouches down and roughly pushes her knees apart, his hands on her thighs as he turns his head and brushes his lips against one. She does her best to stifle a whimper, trying to move her hips closer to his face. She would love and hate how he used to do this all the time, rile her up and then go torturously slow to the point she would just beg him to touch her. If she was good, he would let her come; but if she wasn’t, he wouldn’t let her come until he decided to allow it. He had complete control over her and it gave her a sick and twisted thrill to know she was at his mercy. 

He kisses along the skin of her inner thighs, getting maddeningly closer to where she wants his lips on her cunt. It takes all her self control to stay still under his touch, but luckily enough he decides to finally reward her by licking up along her slit, and the throaty cry Clarke lets out fills the room. 

“Do I need to stop?” The annoyance in his tone is aggravating, especially since she’s been good so far and not as mouthy as she usually is by this point. She knows what he wants and if she weren’t so keyed up she’d tell him to fuck off.

“No, please,” she breathes, trying to keep as still as she can while her hands are gripping the sheets like a vice. “Need your mouth.”

Bellamy hums in approval, giving her clit a chaste kiss before she feels a finger prod at her entrance. “Just my mouth?”

“Hands, too,” she adds with a groan, squirming under his touch as she feels him use her wetness to slick up his fingers. “Whatever you want. Just don’t stop.”

Two fingers suddenly sink past her folds and Clarke moans loudly as they stretch and deliciously fill up her cunt. “Fuck! Y-Yeah, please, so good,” she manages to tell him. 

He builds up a rhythm, thrusting inside her and she flushes at the obscene sound of her wetness as they move in and out. She cries out when he adds a third finger and can feel her orgasm getting closer and closer with each thrust, and she tells him as much.

“Yeah? You want to come on my fingers, Clarke? That’s why you’re here, right? Because no one else can make you feel this good?” he asks, his pace, as well as his voice, getting rougher. 

She’s a moaning mess now, blabbering about how close she is, how good it feels, and right when she’s about to fall over the edge he slows down. 

God, she hates him.

“Yes, yes, you make me feel so good,” she agrees, desperation laced in every word. “Please, Bell, don’t stop!”

She hears him curse under his breath before he reattaches his lips to her pussy, wrapping his lips around her clit and sucking hard, just as he crooks his fingers upwards and the tight coil inside Clarke snaps. 

Her back arches off the bed, a slew of curses and moans leaving her lips as her orgasm runs through her, hot and blazing over every inch of her body. She feels a gush of wetness between her shaking legs and it only briefly registers in her mind that he actually managed to make her squirt. He was the first and only partner to ever make her do so and she hates that he has that, too.

It takes her several minutes to come back down, to catch her breath and remember just exactly where she is. She weakly lifts her head to see Bellamy wiping her wetness off his chin and then licking it off his fingers with a smug expression on his face. “Welcome back.”

“Shut up,” she pants, covering her face with her arm. Her orgasm has left her a little winded and boneless, but still not completely sated. While he’s amazing at making her cum on his mouth, she still feels empty and needs his cock inside her soon before she goes crazy.

“Lose the attitude, Princess. We’re not done,” he warns, and she whimpers as he climbs onto the bed and over her. He taps her side and she arches up so he can finally unhook her bra, and pushes it off to the side when he does. He gazes down at her bare chest, reaching to massage one breast with his hand while the other grips his cock. 

She tilts her head up to watch him, watch as his hand works over the darker skin of his dick, to where the head is flushed and red and she can already spot a bead of precum leaking from the tip. She reaches forward to do it for him, Bellamy raising a brow as he actually allows her to take him in her grasp. He groans and his head tips back as she strokes him, trying to imitate the speed and rhythm he was using a moment ago but occasionally swiping her thumb along the tip.

“Fuck, Clarke... Look how you got me, babe,” he growls and she can see his adam’s apple bob in his throat as he braces himself on the tops of his thighs where he kneels over her. “All thick and hard,” he adds, his voice sounding wrecked. “Can’t wait to be inside you.”

She props herself up on her elbows to get more comfortable, stroking him a little faster. He’s hot and heavy in her hand, her fingers feeling every vein along the shaft and her mouth waters knowing how she’s going to soon feel them along the walls of her pussy as he fills her up.

“I’ve always hated how you have the perfect cock,” she tells him, keeping up her pace. She notes the clench of his jaw and how tightly his fingers are digging into his thighs and it gives her a sense of pride that she can reduce him like this. For all his talk, she knows how to make a mess out of him, too. “You gonna remind me how good it is, Bell? Or just keep me waiting?”

He manages to look at her now, determination blazing in his eyes as if he’s just now woken up from some deep trance. He grunts and tells her to sit up, and he maneuvers them so she’s kneeling up on the bed in front of him, him doing the same but he’s pressed behind her. One hand grabs her breast and massages it, his thumb flicking over and pinching her nipple while the other grabs his hard length and teases it along her slit. 

A new gush of wetness coats him and she moans as the hand on her breast moves to gather her hair in his grip and tilts her head backward against his jaw. “You ready for this, baby? Ready for my cock to split you open?” he growls against her cheek.

He tugs on her hair and she whimpers in reply, doing her best to nod while she also tries to grind down on his length. He’s right again, she does want it. She wants it more than she wants to breathe, at this point. He’s got her so wound up and she hates it, hates feeling like she needs him.

“Bellamy, please,” she begs, feeling like she could almost cry. He lines himself up at her entrance and she can feel her walls enveloping the head. It already feels so good but she needs more. She needs him to fill her up.

“Good girl,” he tells her before pushing inside her in a single thrust. She yells out from the intense pleasure and the burn as he stretches her open, her hands looking for anything to hold onto. No matter how many times they’ve done this, she always forgets just how  _ big _ he is and how he fills her up to the point she feels she’s about to break apart.

“Shh, I got you,” he tells her soothingly as he begins to rock against her, letting her adjust. She shudders when he pulls back but then lets out another pathetic moan when he pushes back in and bottoms out.

“Shit, so big, so full,” she mumbles, reaching up behind her to tangle her fingers in his hair. 

They both catch their breath for a moment, Bellamy resting his forehead against her shoulder before he starts to move again. It doesn’t burn quite as much now, but Clarke can still feel how much he stretches her out each time he pushes back inside her. It’s that perfect mix of pleasure and pain that she’s grown addicted to and that she's not sure she’ll be able to find with anyone else.

Bellamy builds up a steady rhythm, pounding with deep thrusts and she struggles to hold herself upright as he fucks into her. He must sense it because he wraps his free arm around her middle, anchoring her body to his. She can feel his breath by her ear and his heart beating against her back and she thinks this is the closest one could ever be to a person. There’s nothing else quite like it.

“Feeling good, babe? Feeling how I fill you up over and over? Fill you up with my cock?” he grunts out, his thrusts getting rougher now that he’s got a steady hold on her.

She nods as best she can, and she feels like tears are stinging her eyes with how good it feels. She can feel that coil deep in her core tensing up again, and it won’t be long before he’s pushing her over the edge once more but she doesn’t want this to end so soon. She needs to do something to draw this out longer.

“God, I hate you,” she hisses after a particularly deep thrust makes her gasp, and the hand that was wrapped in her hair moves to the delicate skin of her throat.

“Then why am I the only one that gets to have you like this?” he replies with a smirk, his sweaty curls falling over his eyes with each thrust. “Why am I the only one that can fuck you the way you need?”

He slows down his pace, exactly as Clarke expected. He loves to draw things out, prolong her pleasure when she gets bratty, which is what she wants despite how much she needs to come.

She doesn’t want to think about his words, but she hates that there’s truth to it; she can never get over him and under someone else because she only ends up thinking about Bellamy. She thinks about his golden brown skin, the freckles dusting his cheeks, the hair that’s perfect for running her hands through it, the arms that make her feel safe and secure even when he’s fucking her like this, the mouth that challenges yet never fails to adore her. 

He’s in her blood now and no matter what she does, she always finds herself drawn back to him like a pathetic moth to a flame despite them not being able to make things work.

She doesn’t answer him, but he doesn’t stop there, he continues his slower pace but still slams back deeply into her in a way that makes her cry out in desperation. “C’mon Princess. Who else can fuck you like I can? Tell me.”

She’s so close now, she just needs him to shut up and finish fucking her already so they can move on like they always do. She's so close she can taste it. It’s just dirty talk, she reasons to herself. It doesn’t mean anything.

“N-No one,” she gasps. “Just you. Only you fuck me this good, like I need.”

“And you’re not going to let anyone else fuck this pussy, are you? Because it’s  _ mine.  _ Say it, Clarke.”

His thrusts are getting faster again, but they feel sloppier and less controlled. He’s getting close, too, she realizes. She just needs a little more…

“Yours! It’s yours, only yours,” she cries out, almost full on sobbing at this point. Her body already feels so sore, her skin on fire and close to its breaking point as he keeps slamming into her. 

“And  _ you are mine,”  _ he growls, tightening his grip on her throat now, his fingers pressing into her skin and Clarke sputters out a gasp. “Aren’t you, baby?”

She nods frantically, feeling like the last thread is about to snap before she falls over the precipice. “Yes! God, yes. Just yours, it’s all yours!”

As soon as it leaves her mouth, both her and Bellamy’s bodies go rigid, their orgasms hitting them like bricks and making them curse and groan under their breaths. She can feel Bellamy’s semen filling her up and coating her walls, thick and hot inside her while she begins to sag forward. 

Bellamy keeps his hold on her, his head falling onto her shoulder again as he whispers her name over and over into her skin as he comes down. She can feel his chest rising and falling against her back, and their legs shaking under their weight.

She shudders as the sweat on her skin begins to cool, her hair sticking to her neck as she finally feels like she can catch her breath. That was one of the strongest orgasms he’s ever given her, if not the strongest, and she wonders if it was the same for him.

He finally begins to move and regain some strength from behind her, and she lets out a soft whine of disappointment when he pulls out of her and leaves her empty. She feels the warmth of his seed spilling out of her and down her thighs and onto the sheets beneath her, wishing she could have felt it inside her a little longer, but that’s just how it is.

Now it was over and she needed to move onto what she always did when it was over: leave. Before the feelings of shame and loneliness overwhelmed her and they could go back to pretending it never even happened until next time.

Still feeling shaky, she falls over onto her side while Bellamy does the same, leaving both of them looking at each other in their afterglow. They rarely ever do this, instead opting to just get dressed and for whoever to leave. But now they’re here and finally getting a good look at each other, too tired to mask their usual anger and annoyance with each other.

It hadn’t always been like that, she remembers sadly. They used to be happy. They were so  _ good  _ for each other and making each other better than they ever were before. But of course life ultimately gets messy, and people get even messier. Happiness turned into insecurities and fear and jealousy and they let it ruin them. 

Bellamy’s eyes are softer now, almost as if he still cares about her like he used to. Instead of the raw, primal intensity they held before, now she only feels warmth in his gaze. 

She doesn’t know why he looks at her like that, but it scares her. That’s never happened since they started this toxic habit, and suddenly it feels like something has changed. She goes to sit up and move off the bed, but she feels his fingers grasp her wrist and she looks back at him over her shoulder.

“You can stay.”

Clarke saw his lips move but she’s not sure if she really heard him. At least not correctly.

“What?”

“Stay,” he repeats, his voice low and gravelly. “You can stay. If you want.”

She blinks at him. A beat. Then two.

“Okay.”

He looks thoroughly surprised, clearly not expecting her to have agreed, but he doesn’t waste time and moves back up the bed and turns the sheets down. They both climb in in silence, Bellamy offering her a spot under his arm which she hesitantly takes. She's curled into his side, the way she used to do more than a year ago, and inhales the familiar scent of his sheets and just Bellamy.

He seems hesitant as well, as if he’s thinking of something to say, and Clarke holds her breath, waiting for him to say he was just joking and actually wants her to leave. 

It never comes, and she only releases the breath she’s holding when he leans over to press his lips into her hair. Just like he used to before they went to bed.

She doesn’t know what’s happening, what exactly changed this time. It feels as though something bigger is happening than just staying the night and falling back into their old habits.

But it can’t. Not after everything they’ve been through and said to each other. Not after all the harsh words and hurt feelings. There’s nothing left for them. Right?

The longer she tries to think about it, the more exhausted she feels, especially after the night they just had. She’s not sure when was the last time they tired each other out quite like this, if ever. Her head is yelling at her to stay awake, to think of every possible explanation as to what’s happening now but her heart is telling her to just rest and worry about it tomorrow.

She snuggles a bit more into Bellamy’s chest, so her ear is resting over his heart and she can faintly hear and feel the steady beating under his warm skin.

The room is silent, save for their soft breathing, but Clarke can clearly hear when Bellamy breaks it.

“I miss you.”

“I miss you, too,” she finds herself admitting. It feels like a massive weight has been lifted off her chest.

“Goodnight, Princess.”

“Goodnight, Bell.”

She falls asleep almost instantly, lulled by the steady beating of Bellamy’s heart.

Maybe she doesn’t hate him so much. Maybe not at all.

  
  
  
  
  



End file.
